Just Call Me 'Quail Man'
by RawrrrGrimm
Summary: AU Journal entries from Ichigo's perspective. A documentation of struggle, accompanied with Ichigo's expected derisive wit and surprising revelations. Rated M for language  just to be safe . No pairing.


**_Authors Note: This is a piece I wrote for a creative writing class. It was not originally published for Bleach, but as a personal reflection. However, I felt like a lot of my comments/experiences reflected the characterization of Ichigo pretty well. Plus I'm trying to start editing on here and won't let me until I publish. So here goes. Altering it from a female perspective into Ichigo's was...simplistic. I just replaced my name with his and altered small details. None of the content has been changed._**

**_Disclaimer: As with all of these stories, I neither own nor profit from Bleach or its characters. I wish I could say I did, but alas I'm nothing but a poor little fangirl. _**

_**Just Call Me 'Quail Man'**_

**June 16****th**** 2010**

Write down your feelings, he says. It will help you understand what the problems are, he says. My _ass_ it'll help me understand. First of all, he is going off of the assumption that I understand my emotions in the first place; he is seriously mistaken. Yeah, of _course_, Doc. I showed up at your disinfectant ridden establishment just to hear, "Journal your emotions, Ichigo. Think about how the various sources of irritant make you feel in life and then adjust from there." This isn't journaling, you quack, it's keeping a diary—and I'm not thirteen, needing something (or I suppose in this case, someone imaginary) to confide in about the boy I'm crushing on, so I write it all down in this stupid little 'journal' and feel better—until the day I lose it in gym and everyone reads it aloud in lunch—wait, that wasn't me. That was an episode of Doug. That episode is probably why I didn't 'journal' about my problems last year in the first place. Talking about your emotions and putting everything down for the world to eventually see and digest is a lot to ask of a person. In all honesty, I'd rather put on one of Doug's alter egos and dress up like Quail Man, man panties on the outside of my oversized brown shorts and leather belt on my head, posing as my curled black forehead plume substitute. I'd willingly dress up like that eyesore and go to school to endure the pointing and laughing, if I could avoid thinking and writing about my _feelings_.

But here I am, staring at this stupid thing and scribbling down in it. So you know what, _Doc_? I think this "emotional homework assignment" as you put it, is a piece of crap. I feel nothing but irritation towards you. Yes! One emotion I can clearly identify. I am annoyed, irritated, aggravated—as many synonyms for that word you can come up with, I feel it. I feel it deep in my bones, leeching into the marrow and building up pressure; to levels so high I'm sure my bones are cracking from the force. Yep, I'm irritated. I'm irritated for a very superficial reason—you're hurting my pride here, man. This is fucking ridiculous, hell I'll admit it, I'm being quite infantile about the whole thing. But for gods sake I'm a grown-ass man. I don't need someone telling me to talk about my _feelings_. My feelings got me in this situation in the first place! If I didn't have these _feelings_, I wouldn't need to 'journal' now would I? Okay. Enough talking for today, I'll get back to this insanity after I've given it some more thought and I'm less bitter about the whole thing.

**September 29****th**** 2010**

Back from another doctor's appointment and now I have to wonder, is there an assumption that just because I may be just a _tad_ depressed, that I would want to talk about my feelings? Better yet, lets get back to this _understanding_ my feelings concept. Because hell, I'll be honest, I don't get them at all. I can't tell when I'm sad most of the time because I'm so fuckin' caught up in the moment it takes me a long time to realize that I'm _sad_ and not _mad_. You'd think I could differentiate the two, but I can't. One triggers the other, so how the fucking hell am I supposed to be able to tell which one causes the other? If I'm sad, I'm angry in two seconds flat. No question about it; sadness, that detestable emotion, pisses me off. It's a useless emotion, sadness. All it serves to do is slow down my life, make situations even less bearable than they were ten seconds ago and then clouds my judgment. _What kind of crap is that, huh?_

But that's where this all started in the first place. My emotions got in the way of my life and I had to put everything on hold to get back on track. I've talked about this with you so many times, but I guess one more time won't hurt. So here's my moment of honesty. I hope you're paying attention because this is the last time I'm going to talk about this shit.

The thing is, I think I've been ridiculously talkative about my feelings and problems but now I think I'm all talked out. When I first started spiraling out of control I didn't have a choice but to talk about things so I could explain why I needed time off from school, why I needed to put my life on hold essentially (so that I didn't lose what was little left of my mind.) Talk about a bruised pride. I had to give up my self-respect and beg my parents on bended knee for some time to heal. Everyone thought I was going to drop out of school when I told them I was taking time off for my health. They figured I'd fucked up my life and I was choosing to run from my problems. _Assholes. _I wasn't running away from anything, I was facing my problems. I just knew I couldn't do it _and_ still work toward my degree at the same time. I was already failing everything; did they want me to go on academic probation too? I'm not sure you get it, Doc. For someone like me, whose whole existence revolved around learning and getting good grades, admitting I was a failure was a big hit to the ego.

You may live a perfectly charmed life what with your trophy wife and perfect bleached teeth, but I know despite your Doogie Howser appearance, you understand the physical aspects of my problems. It's all right there in my chart. We've waxed on poetic about these physical ailments for years. You've prescribed dozens of medications to try to fix the migraines, the insomnia, yadda yadda yadda. We'd done everything and I still missed months worth of school and landed my ass in the hospital more times than I'd like to remember. How many times have I been in a hospital hooked up to an IV and we never did figure out why I was there? At least six times, right? My body is a fucking joke. You know what? I'm better now and I still don't quite understand everything that's happened. I don't understand the physical or emotional side of anything, which makes writing in this 'journal' such a _waste of my time!_ Why don't _you_ tell me what I'm missing, Doc. Alright, I can't relive this again so I'll call it a day and get back to this at a later date.

**October 24****th**** 2010**

Okay, I think I can spread some light on my life. I'm having a really good day today and maybe if I start when I'm not so irritated I can actually think it out and get down to the nitty gritty. I feel like all I do these days is tell Karin that no, I'm not suicidal while simultaneously having to tell my dad that no, just because I'm not suicidal doesn't mean I'm better. It really is funny how unsympathetic they are considering Mom was depressed when she was younger. It runs in the family, on both sides (unfortunately Dad's crazy really is hereditary). If anything about this situation bothers me it would be that every time we talk about having to take time off, my Dad immediately begins to passive-aggressively blame me for my health issues. This isn't even about being depressed, it's about being sick ninety percent of my life and not having a way to fix it. I'm not sure how I can explain that I don't have control over my body, or my brain for that matter—oh hell, come to think of it that was the problem all along. The lack of control got to me and…

Ah forget about it, I just can't talk about this crap anymore. It's too mushy and it makes my skin crawl. I feel like I've been trapped in a box blindfolded and then some asshole comes along and fills it with itty bitty spiders that crawl all up and down my skin, like some seriously twisted form of torture. I imagine menacing Russian military personnel standing over the box screaming at me with that thick accent, "Vell? Vat do you feel now, leetle boy?" Oh god. See, this is why the world can't see what I think! I sound like some crazy stereotyping racist dick that assumes the Russian military tortures their enemies with spider boxes. I don't, really—but my brain seemed to think that the situation seemed to fit the context. Maybe I am crazy…

**December 5****th**** 2010**

Okay. I've given it some more thought these past months and as far as I understand, it all boils down to this: I failed at life in a big way and then I freaked out. That's a pretty simplistic way to put things, but that's what happened. I fell apart at the seams and it took sitting in my kitchen, face plastered against the tile while I sobbed uncontrollably to knock some sense into me. For most people, crying isn't a wake up call, but it is for me. Especially when I considered the circumstances of my miniature breakdown. I was crying my heart out because I was faced with the decision to either eat or sleep for an hour and the effort necessary to walk three feet to the bed or make something as simple as toast was just too much. Collapsing onto the floor in that fit of despair was all I could manage at the time. I still can't explain how I got to that place or how I let the situation get so desperate. It's one of those "and before I knew it" situations. In all honesty, the beginning and the end are all blurs; but that moment stands in sharp contrast to the rest, vivid color amid the black and white of my memories.

It wasn't until months later that you figured out from my records that I had been displaying symptoms of depression for about ten years. It wasn't until I finally took some time off and was able to calm down that we found out that all of the physical ailments were a result of the stress and then the depression. Just my fucking luck right? It had to be me, the only one in the family who hadn't fucked up royally as a teen who eventually went off the deep-end at even the slightest bit of trouble. Classic.

So there you have it, Doc. Right here on paper—my inability to talk about anything but my anger, irritation, aggravation, ineptitude, impending insanity and resentment. I like that last word, resentment. It has a nice connotation, don't you think? I resent my anger and irritation, I also resent you for making me think about the past over and over again and then demand I write it all down in this stupid little flimsy thing. I swear I'm going to need to hide it in a safe deposit box so no one else can read my thoughts. Do you know how _insane_ I sound right now? Talking to a seemingly imaginary doctor with no name in a flowery journal with my name on it? Yeah, I sound completely loony, and not in a Bugs Bunny way that's funny, quippy, and entertaining all at the same time. I just sound pathetic and pissed off and a little bit like I need to be strapped down in a pretty white jacket and placed in a white-walled room that's fun to bounce around in.

Thanks by the way, for personalizing the journal. Nice touch, man. I'm glad my co-pay goes towards flowery journals with my name emblazoned on the front in extravagant calligraphy (which is really only suitable for wedding invitations…but who am I to argue?).

So here it is in black and white but it all looks like crazy shades of gray to me. I wrote it all out and I went through the process and I am still rather confused how to "adjust" my emotions from here. So you tell me, is my irritated resentment toward you justified or am I just being a child? What was the point of this assignment, Doc? To piss me off, or did you hope that I would come to some deep and meaningful realization about myself and then everything would make sense? If that was it, you failed miserably. What about the rest of that shit? How is my break down, for a lack of a better term, relevant to how I feel now if I no longer feel that way? What's the point of all this?


End file.
